


This Was A Bad Idea

by by_veidt



Category: Grabbity balls, Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Ending, Anal Sex, Come, Couch Sex, Definitely Bondage, Demon Deals, Dream Demon, Dream Sex, Dreams and Nightmares, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consentacles, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Groping, Hand Jobs, M/M, Magic, Mildly Dubious Consent, Molestation, Multiple Sex Positions, Oral Sex, Orgasm, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Relationship(s), Power Imbalance, Precome, Prostate Milking, Shapeshifting, Size Difference, Tentacle Job, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Tongue Fucking, Tongues, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Wet Dream, bondage?, spit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-04 00:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10978242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/by_veidt/pseuds/by_veidt
Summary: After torture doesn't work, Bill implements other methods of extracting information from Stanford.





	1. Take Me Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Briarwitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Briarwitch/gifts).



> This story has flashbacks. I'll try to make them obvious. Also, this is an alt ending fic; it starts right as Nightmare Bill is starting to chase the kids out of the throne room in Weirdmageddon part 3. Enjoy!  
> 

Stanford watched the kids disappear down the corridor, heart sinking into the pit in his stomach and for a split second he regretted lying to the power-crazed being—he was omnipotent now, no escape, but if telling Bill he had the answer to everything the demon could want kept Cipher's attention then maybe he could finally have the upper hand over the nightmare-turned-god—two could play that game, and Bill had been winning for far too long. He pulled his last weapon from under his coat, a compact plasma rifle of sorts, and even if it hit it would probably barely make a mark now, but Bill was going to kill the kids, or worse. He fired at the last sight of the towering form, a golden hand catching the beam against its palm before finger-gunning it back at the cage in a burst of iridescent dust, both shielding themselves. “You're **lucky** I still **need** **you** , Sixfingers,” the voice echoed around them. He looked out over his arm as the dust settled, walls down, monstrous figure growing closer. “Your **brother** on the other **hand**...” The red beam of his eye cast over Stanley, the man's expression stern as he stood his ground. It focused into a pinpoint between his eyes, Ford lunging in front of him as a bolt of energy shot across the room, exploding on a point several feet in front of them that sent the older twins flying.

Stanford tried to level himself as he skidded across the smooth floor, dragging his hand across the polished stone, slowing down enough to drag a boot. “I have to **hand** it to you, **Fordsy** , you're a **lot** more **resilient** than I **remember**. **Maybe** I just didn't **try** hard enough, but you **made** it so **easy**.” Ford grimaced at the comment—the frequent reminders of his mistakes sliced deeper wounds than most anything Bill could put his body through. He floated down near the man, having assumed his typical form, swirling some punch around in its glass, eyeing it with a strange regard before landing his gaze on Ford, scrutinizing in the way that always made some part of Ford shiver. “ **Maybe** I've been **going** about this the **wrong** **way**. Punch?” He held the glass out expectantly, contented expression belying his malevolent intent.

“Don't mind if I DO,” the man shouted, throwing a careless right hook at the being. His wrist practically fell into Bill's grasp, hand a liquid bleakness that spilled up his sleeve. He tried to yank his arm free as panic washed over him anew, antagonized by the think length of flesh that licked up his palm, pulling a shudder from him.

“You remember that **thing** we used to **do**?” he asked with a glimmer of nostalgia, swirling the drink again.

“No,” Ford responded with a defeated disdain. He felt a sickness wash over him, the overtly amused expression Cipher wore tangling his gut.

“Well, **you're** **gonna** ,” he replied with a dangerous enthusiasm, thick black tentacle shooting out from where his eye was, coiling tightly around the man's neck and hoisting him from his feet, Ford choking on a wet rasp as he tried to breathe. His hands grappled at the object, slime coating preventing any grip he tried to manage. And he had lied—of course he had. As soon as the demon asked, a flurry of memories hit him, black and slick and warm, the nagging golden glow haunting his periphery, and oh how he missed it. For some time it was all he could get off to, but the last few decades of fighting for his life had frozen his libido over, though the writhing flesh around his neck made his cock flush solid in one hot rush. Another wriggling appendage cupped the form in Ford's pants, the man trying to kick it away. “ **That** wasn't too **HARD** now **was** it, **Fordsy**. If **you** just **told** me **what** **you** **wanted** I wouldn't have to **choke** it out of you. Or do you **prefer** it this way? **I** seem to have a **particular** recollection of your deviant **proclivities** ,” Bill teased with a recollective turn in his voice, arms crossed with one hand up and finger tapping at the surface below his tongue as he thought. The tentacle dropped him, form growing and darkening to a brilliant shade of red, sections splitting to reveal squirming masses of black, tongues spilling out past sharp, conical, and golden teeth, voice distorted as he spoke, “I'll _**just**_ have to **refresh** _your_ _**memory**_.”

 

 

The night ran late, again, and Stanford had all but passed out at his work station. His mind was clouded and his work suffered, but it wasn't just exhaustion creeping around his thoughts. As he fell to his bed he palmed his groin through his cargo pants, begging for his aching hardness to go away, but begging hadn't worked so far. He thought that the mental stimulation he was receiving from his benevolent intellectual benefactor would be enough to keep him occupied, but his mind had a devious way of wandering back to primal impulses, and usually on the worst occasions. He groaned as he tried to will it away—the ache, the burn, the need. The constant, clawing need, and his hand had been failing him as a partner; he needed more, needed physical contact, but where, in this podunk town, was he supposed to find that--he didnt even know where to start because he hadn't ever tried. His studies and, most recently, his work, had consumed his life, but it wasnt enough anymore. But the answer was the same as always; he wouldn't because he wouldn't lower himself to acting on impulse when he had such important work to do. But he needed the relief, just once, tonight, then never again. He pulled himself free of his fly, darkness seeping in to the edges of his vision as he tried to imagine anything that would get him there faster, but nothing came, and neither did he, falling victim to sleep before he found release.

 

He awoke floating in a thick sea of nebula, stars and stardust a thick syrup over his skin, under his clothes and in his hair. A hazy gold glow passed over him and stayed, Ford opening his eyes slowly. “Hey there, Fordsy. Long time no see.” Bill was floating over him, looking down, hand on his hips and feet out straight as he onced, twiced, and thriced the man over. Ford winced at the brightness of the teacher's light, sitting up and falling back into a plush armchair. “What's the **matter** , Sixer? You seem a little, hm, **normal**.”

“I'm just... tired.” It was the first time he had lied to Bill, and part of his chest tightened, not sure how that would go over. Why did he lie? Was he that ashamed of being human, or was it because he thought he could do better.

“I think you **meant** to say 'distracted',” he corrected with an upturn of his hand, eye looking up and off to emphasize his waning patience. Ford regarded him from under his brow, unsure how to proceed. It wasn't really a conversation he wanted or needed to be having with anyone. “Don't tell me you're **losing** your enthusiasm,” Bill goaded, offering a cup of tea and a chessboard.

“No! Of course not,” he responded with an edge of panic. “I'm just... I'm having trouble focusing lately, but it's nothing to worry about.”

“It **sounds** like it might be **something** to **worry** about,” he said with an air of tightness in his voice.

“I'll fix it, I promise.”

“Good!” Bill's cheerful response eased some of the tension in Ford's figurative gut, watching him move a piece on the board, but the being had millenia to learn how to hide his intentions, and he couldn't afford his human being distracted by petty physical wants. He looked the man over while Ford stared at the board, adding up his past distracted points and lurking thoughts while in his body. He smiled to himself, though not entirely, Ford pulling inward just slightly when he looked up to see the smugness on the pyramid's face.

“So... what did you want to discuss tonight?” Ford prompted, a hint of nervousness in his voice that he kicked himself for.

“ **Whatever** you like! I'm an **open** book. **Ask** , and you shall **receive** , so they say.” He eyed him with what was obviously a physical inventory of the man, and suddenly Ford was feeling uncomfortable, a sensation he was unfamiliar with in this realm. The ambient light grew darker, and his anxiety spiked. “Whoa, **whoa** , there. Easy, **Sixfingers** ,” Bill almost chided in his tone, holding his hands up defensively. “Let's skip the **games** today,” he said, shooing the chessboard and its pieces away, floating closer to the man.

“Look, I... maybe I just need a night off. To gather my bearings.” His exhaustion crept through into his dreamscape, looking around at the convoluted molecular structures and disorganized periodic table—he wasn't even working with chemistry at the moment. He rubbed his brow with his free hand, looking up to the much closer glow of his muse, a curious look in his vague expression.

“You **trust** me, right, **Fordsy**?” His tone was saccharine and too tame.

“Uh-of course.” He almost tripped over the words, eyes darting over to some objects floating past. His gaze was drawn back to Bill's by perfectly smooth fingertips just above his jaw line, guiding his focus back.

“And you **trust** I **know** what's best for **you** , right?”

Ford's brow furrowed slightly, unease and an unfamiliar feeling welling up in his chest. “Of course.”

“Great!” He shrunk slightly, eye rolling over into a mouth with rich, cosmic sparkled lips, a golden fanged grin peeking through. Ford couldn't do anything but lean back, claw tip insisting him forward just under his chin. His fingers dug into the arms of the chair as their lips pressed together, electricity shooting through him and straight to his groin, a hot flush spiking up into his cheeks. Ford felt his heart flutter, mind race, and for a fraction of a moment could only think about this. He unconsciously followed when Bill pulled back, startling himself and awkwardly pushing himself back to where he was, much to amusement of the grinning maw before him. “ **Like** that, huh **Fordsy**?”

“No—I--,” was his initial guarded reaction, trying to reason around how he felt such strong sensation in a dream, not entirely sure what he was even feeling.

“ **No**?? I **know** I'm a little **rusty** , but--”

“I mean, yes!” he cut him off, kicking himself for doing that, heart speeding up more to where he could hear it echo around him. “I'm sorry; yes. I--” When did he become so awkward?

“Good.” The demon's voice warbled a bit around the word, but it was lost on the man who was urged back in to the touch by long vines that snaked up behind him. Another bolt of electricity ran through him when the lips sealed over his again, shiver bouncing back up his spine. A thick and viscous tongue pressed between the man's lips, his body recoiling just enough for the cords braced along his back to nudge him forward again. A quieted moan rose from Ford's chest, muffled by the winding flesh in his mouth that his tongue fought a valiant battle against. And Bill could feel himself glow—this was going to be easier than he thought. He could feel the years of sexual repression and guilt roiling under the surface of Stanford's collected calm and ambitious genius. Humans always seem to think like they're safer in the dreamscape—how delightfully wrong they are. And his was no different. Ford reached a tentative hand out, met with a slimy, smooth-surfaced tendril that wound its way up his arm and under his sleeve. Another spiraled up his leg, undulating around the form of his too hard cock through his pants. Ford's body snapped taut, satiny, talon-tipped fingers ghosting over his neck and up in to his hair in an attempt to soothe him and hold him in place. The scientist conceded, relaxing back against the blue aura of the chair, vines winding around his upper body, binding his arms to his sides with little resistance. “ **Good** **boy**!” the sharp voice echoed until it was just a distorted wavelength of sound.

 _'Good boy....'_ Stanford repeated in his mind. Eyes slowly opening, half-lidded and glazed over, sclera a rippling tide of shifting galaxies as they stared off into the towering golden sliver that watched him from the dark. The tongue slid lax from his mouth, Ford taking in a heavy breath, heart beat still a constant racing rhythm in the emptiness around them. Fingertips slid back down his neck, cradling his jaw as thumbpads brushed over the man's high set cheekbones. Bill mused, watching the man tremble in his binds. A kiss was enough, but how much could he get away with? Pain, he had learned, was not something this human cherished, but this.... He'd bargain he could get Stanford to destroy the world for this delectable little whim.

Another pair of hands smoothed up Ford's thighs, decisively unfastening his belt and fly. He made to look down, claw tips threatening his skin with hypodermic keenness. A small whimper escaped him, eyes scanning the abyss for any distinguishable feature, chess pieces floating through his field of vision occasionally. A wet heat slapped against his neck, burying under the line of his collar and around, thick tentacle exploring his accessible skin with curious tenacity.

The tendril across his groin slithered down the front of his pants and under the line of his briefs, lathing a residually hot trail down and around his aching cock. The gasping moan he made caused the vines around him tighten and release in a ripple, cock pulsing in response. The tentacle around his neck wound its way up into his mouth, slime and saliva webbing strands down his chin. The hands withdrew with delicate precision, appendage furthering itself past his lips, breath harshly drawn through his nose. His length was withdrawn from his pants with a wet noise, tentacle coiled in concentric rings around him, tightening up and down his length in consecutive pulses. A low moan poured up from his chest and against the sticky-sweet writhing mass that pressed his tongue down. His legs shook as they pulled together, body pulling against his binds as he felt the heat and tension in his lower abdomen build. Thicker vines ensnared his calves, guiding his legs apart again. His head slumped against the tentacle bound up under his chin and along his neck, end working strands of star-littered slick and spit that spilled down to the flexing rings around his throbbing member. His legs quivered against their bindings, throat trying to choke out a staggered moan against the intrusion that just as soon removed itself, slithering across his face and through his hair. “Ooh, Bill...” he nearly slurred, body going tight against all of his binds as he came, hard, but so smooth, breath caught in his lungs. His eyelids fluttered, mind swaying in the encroaching darkness, a luminous, golden, and fang laden grin haunting the last of his sight.

 

Ford shot up in his bed, heart pounding in his chest, body cold with sweat, and a distinct clammy feeling against his crotch a miserable chore to attend to. He clutched his temple, and ran his hand down his neck, the damp skin just that, and he steadied his breathing. It was just a dream—just a dream. _'Oh no.'_

 

 

Bill loomed over him, his mirthful gaze tracking the man as he tried to right himself, but the demon was upon him, crimson and sprouting tongues and teeth and too many glowing arms. Ford threw his arms up over his face, boot pressed to the monstrous form. “ **Don't** act coy **now** , Fordsy.” The level of distortion in his voice fluctuated, tongue winding around his leg. The man struggled to free it, throwing another punch in Bill's general direction, only to have both of his wrists apprehended to the ground by gold cast claws. “What's the matter, Sixer? You used to _**love this**_!”

“Please, no.” The weakness in his voice startled even him, but he wanted to play to Bill's impulses—he didn't want Stanley to see him like this. Whatever he could do to protect them became his mantra.

“No? **You** used to **beg** **me** for it, and now **you** don't **want** it?” A tongue slithered over the bulge in his pants, slipping beneath his sweater and undershirt and up his chest, leaving a sticky hot trail in its wake. “I understand, it's **been** a **while** , but **you** don't need to **worry** about me, **Sixer**. I remember **everything** that used to **make** **you** **scream**.” Another tongue slid under his waistline, coiling around his length with tantalizing pressure.

“Stanford!” The word cut through the air and deep into Ford's stomach. He had hoped that Stanley had been transported to another room or was contained in some sensory blocking box or even turned to stone, but the sound of his voice echoing across the expansive room brought all of that terror and shame to life. He heard the walls shoot up around his brother, tilting his head back to watch him be barred in to a pyramidal cage, Stan's arms threading through polygonal holes as he tried to squeeze his way to his twin. A set of sharp talons threatened Ford's cheeks as his head was tilted back towards the demon's gaze.

“What's the **matter** , **Fordsy**? Never **told** your twin **brother** what a **greedy** little **slut** you **are**? Or does **he** know **first** **hand**?” Ford blinked and his brother's image was over him, hand around his jaw and other pawing his length through his trousers. The scientist grimaced as Stanley's hand glided down to his neck and trailed down his body.

“God, stop!” He tried to shove the man off of him with no result, Stan's body warm to the touch through his pressed suit, chestnut dusting his silver and tousled hair, features less hardened as he leaned closer, hand braced just inside of Ford's coat next to his ribs. Ford could feel the firm press of the body against his, the brush of stubble against his jaw, mouth so gentle on his neck as tongue and lips pulled at his skin. Ford squeezed his eyes shut with a quiet groan, hand pushing weakly against Stan's forehead, trying to stop from rolling his hips against his brother's thigh as it pressed between his legs. Another set of hands slid beneath the scientist, claws digging into the fabric of his pants, rending them in two just over the curve of the man's ass, large slash marks ribboning his briefs. His eyes shot open at the implication, nothing but the hulking, blood-red form above him, golden index finger pad pressed to his chest. The long, whip-like appendage slithered down, curling around the man's mostly hard cock, rolling coils up and down his length and under him.

“Please, Bill, don't do this,” Ford breathed, pleaded, sweat prickling his skin.

“Just **give** me what I **want** , IQ; **you're** already getting **yours**.”

“You'll never get it,” he winced, another hand around his jaw, squeezing tighter, divots forming under the tips of the glossy talons.

“Oh, you'll **sing** for me, **you** old **cock**. I'm going to **play** **you** like a squishy **piano**.” Ford felt his chest tighten, heart beating against his sternum—this was a bad idea. But it was for the kids, for Stan, for the world. It was his fault any of this happened, and he was prepared to suffer whatever Bill would put him through to keep his attention—and part of him hated that he actually missed it, that deep down he would enjoy it, and maybe not so deep down. The writhing of the tentacles that worked their way under his clothes caused him to flush deeper, ends of the appendages flattening on one side and developing a textured grip that clung to parts of his skin and pulled over his nipples and across each rib. He shuddered as he feebly tried to struggle away from him, but no amount of human was ever enough to combat the multitude of limbs that sprouted from his old friend and the dexterity to which he wielded every single one. “Come on, then, **genius** , let's **hear** you **hum** a **few** **notes**.” The coils around his cock tightened, tentacles catching on his nipples and slithering up and around his neck, others working their way up his pant legs. He choked back a heady moan, slick, black tendrils pulling again when he took a breath to ensure he didn't have the chance to stop the low sound that spilled over his lips. His resistance ebbed, trying to think in the cacophony of memories and sensations—think, he just needed to think.

 

 


	2. All of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This starts with a flashback, just a heads up. I have not proofread this--just spilled it all out, so, please, forgive the typos and possible weirdnesses that occur within. Have fun!  
> Also, I'm an idiot and forgot to add the second part that is not flashback, so now it's there.

Ford was standing with a book under each foot—the only thing keeping him stable in front of the whiteboard as he worked through a differential equation. He needed the objects to ground him in the free-floating space of his mind—a familiar comfort. Adjacent to him Bill worked ten steps ahead and Ford wondered why he even had him write it out. “It's good practice,” Bill answered, making no indication otherwise towards the man. “I need **you** to **know** how to do these **work-throughs** in your world—you'll be **able** to **generate** them without **me**.”

“I guess I should work on keeping my thoughts down, too,” he petulantly replied. He didn't so much mind that Bill could read his thoughts at any time, or always, but that he couldn't do the same. They shared his mindspace, shouldn't he be able to see into some of what his counter was thinking without having to go through the filtering process of articulating it.

“Your **thoughts** are just so much more **organized** , **Fordsy** —it's nothing **personal**. It's **easy** to pick them **out** —like **what** **you've** been **thinking** about since you **came** here.”

Ford felt a heat of embarrassment and indignance hit his cheeks. “That's... it's an association now. Considering it's a very high emotion memory, it makes sense that the events and persons involved correlate to it immediately. It's just how human memory works.”

“Haha, **weird**.”

“How does yours work?”

“I just know **everything**!” he answered with usual glee, finishing the line of his equation.

“Indeed,” he mused, reevaluating the algorithm in front of him and thankful the subject had changed. But moments later he had found his mind wandering again, tentacles and tongue and blissful release. It had almost become routine, but he could feel his body and mind craving it more and more often. It had only been a couple of days, but he could feel his mind become consumed.

The pen in hand raked a jagged line down from the middle of the variable he was writing when a darting tendril wound quickly up his leg. He lifted his leg in an attempt to escape it. “It's fine, Bill. I'm fine.”

“Really? Because you just started **writing** out a proof to a **theoretical** , trans-dimensional gamma **calibration** ,” the muse replied matter-of-factly, actually facing Ford now. The man looked up at his work again, seeing the circular calculations and step-by variable correlations. He closed his eyes and let out a disgruntled sigh with underpinnings of a groan.

“If it's any consolation, you're not wrong.” The appendage coiled around his leg pulled him up into free space with little resistance, Ford's brow in a deep furrow as he chastised himself.

“I'm sorry,” he said with a distance in his voice.

“Don't **worry** about it,” his voice beamed, tentacles pulling Ford's coat from him, to which the man tried to resist with little success.

“I'm compromising our goals because I can't control my baser functions.”

“Yea, it's pretty **hilarious**.”

Ford expression flattened, darkened eyes finding Bill's. “It's not hilarious, it's egregious! What's wrong with me?” He slapped away another tentacle, the tentacle pausing as if to look at him before lunging for his wrist, Ford punching it this time. “No. Just stop.”

“ **Hey**!” Another slapped Ford across the face, brow over Bill's eye knit.

“You... you hit me.”

“Yea? What are **you** gonna **do** about it, _**tough**_ _**guy**_?” He went to slap him with another tendril, Ford grabbing it and yanking it forward, and, to his surprise and disgust, popping it off from wherever it was anchored, the tentacle thrashing wildly in his grip. He made a corresponding noise, throwing it as hard as possible. This was _his_ mind, and he wasn't going to be slapped or otherwise. He stepped down on to a series of books, an awful screeching following the sound of a blade through flesh, the tentacles in his immediate view shriveling and falling into the abyss.

He looked up to Bill whose hands were balled on what would be his hips, eye hiding a certain amusement. He laughed and it made Ford's ego wince. “You want to **play** **rough** , _**huh**_?” His voice was deep and garbled towards the end of his statement, bright yellow glow flashing over with crimson as he grew, golden arms sprouting from him in pairs, sections dividing in to three layers, lower two sprouting long jagged teeth that more resembled fangs, black tongues spilling out from the writhing masses of roiling tar inside.

And Ford felt the blood rush from his extremities—' _What blood?_ '. He could hear his pulse in his ears, mouth agape as he went to step backwards from the beast, flailing with an unsteady 'whoa' as he fell back over the edge. He landed on a firm, but forgiving surface, warm to the touch and glowing. Digits closed around him and he let out a startled noise, trying to push himself free as he was lifted to the obsidian and gold slivered gaze of his muse. “I guess I won, eh, Fordsy?” His voice was it's usually chipper brightness, the scientist's struggling lessening as he looked the new form over. He swallowed hard, trying to slow his breathing. “Well, Sixfingers, _**what**_ _ **do you**_ _ **think**_?”

“It's... it's...” he started, a smile crossing over the demon's eye, elated at the fear he provoked in the man, startling when he continued, “incredible!” Bill's eye went neutral, pupil flicking back and forth as he looked the man over. “This...” Ford took in a deep breath, “is amazing, I've never seen anything like it. Is this your true form? Is it work to contain? Is anything else diffe—”A tentacle coiled around his head over his mouth, the man taking the hint. When his mouth stopped moving it loosened, petting along his face and slithering down to his neck. Ford panted gently in his grasp, trying to take in as much information as possible, eyeing the space dark tongues that began to navigate towards him. He struggled in Bill's grip with no ground made, eyes widening as the length of flesh licked the bottom of his flexed boot.The other pressed between his legs, Ford squirming in the monster's grasp with a soft moan. He could feel his pants tighten against the line of his erection, blush creeping up under his starched collar. The tongue swiped against his groin again, pressure and heat met with the same, and it was so tortuously wonderful. Ford groaned, lulling his head to the side against the gentle feel of Cipher's hand, arousal smacking him into another realm of perception where all he could think about was what this physical desperation pursued. And Bill's form wasn't helping him resist—instead making it so much worse. His muse harbored so much power that he only had glimmers of in his mindscape—he couldn't wait to see him in the physical world; true, omnipotent knowledge and power, and he got to be the one to help him.

One by one each digit loosened and released him, transferring him onto the flat of his tongue, back supported by the tip as he straddled the mass of flesh. Ford leaned forward, hands splayed over the supple and rich black of the surface, thumbs running over the absolutely smooth texture, likening it to the texture of molten metal. He squeezed part of it, mulling over the complete dryness of the surface, contrary to what it was imitating. Was it always like this?

The man practically jumped out of his figurative skin when a particularly lubricious tendril burrowed under his collar and down his chest, entire body shuddering. He released his hold on the tongue, pulling his hand back with a tacky resistance, tar like viscosity melting to syrup on his hand. He turned his hand over to examine it, watching the liquefying substance run thinner, taking on a more translucent appearance. “Fascinating...” He lifted his other hand, struggling as thick, dark strands attached him to the surface, melting the longer it stayed on his hand, running back down to the flesh from his fingertips as he played with it. Bill couldn't help but roll his eye, tongue tip shoving Ford down on to his stomach, tentacle sliding out from his shirt, the scientist trying to sit up with difficulty, fighting the binding pull of the substance. The tapered flesh dipped under his sweater-vest, pushing and pulling against the fabric of his button-down until it dislodged from his pants, swiping over his skin possessively when it became accessible. Ford managed to leverage himself up, tendril winding around his neck and insisting him down, tongue tip pulling back to lay a long stroke from fabric-trapped hardness up along the seam-enhanced cleft of his ass. The tendril around his neck wound further along his skin, binding across his mouth as his lifted his head to Bill's smiling eye, a wickedness in his stare that struck Ford with unease. His eyes went doey as he tried to free his hands, both bound to the surface to the wrist in what might as well have been liquid silicone.

A loud smack echoed through the space, the action not registering in his mind until the pain began to creep into his mind. Another tendril whipped across his ass, earning a muffled cry into the thick length of tentacle pressed over his mouth, splitting the fabric of his pants. Bill watched the marks of high blush spill into Ford's cheeks, admiring how quickly and completely his mind reacted, savoring the way the man's thoughts whipped into a torrent of humiliation, pain, resentment, and arousal. Another lash cut across him, tentacle sliding between his teeth as he went to scream, fabric rending in another broad stripe that revealed the blooming pink mark on his skin. He panted through his nose, eyes closed as he braced for the next hit, but it didn't come.

The end of the tendril around his neck and face tilted his head up by the chin, another wiping at the wet lines than ran down from the corners of his eyes. A drippingly slick tentacle slithered through the tears in his pants and under the seam of his briefs, another following as it moved and wound around his throbbing length. The second drew a long stroke up the part of his ass, the man's body whipping taut. He tried to pull himself up, realizing his forearms were now consumed by the lightless pitch and flush with the platform of tongue. His eyes found the demon's, panicked and wide under his pinched brow. He shook his head against the binds, unable to form the words to beg in his thoughts; and he worried that it was because he didn't actually want Bill to stop. The pupil of the giant eye just scanned over him, the delight in his expression not lost on the scientist. He tried once more to pull himself free as the fluid painted over his skin cooled, whip marks burning, and for a moment he appreciated the beauty of the dichotomy. He chanced a look towards Cipher again, met with what would be a bigger grin. “Relax, **Fordsy**. It's just a _**dream**_.”

He felt his lungs seize on a breath as the tentacle pushed in to him with little effort, wriggling its increasing girth well into him. A familiar jolt of heat tore through him like a backdraft, reminded only for a fraction of a second the first intimate encounter Bill shared with him. He burned at both ends, soon to meet in the middle and reduce his mind to ash and cinder. He let go of his breath in a desperate noise as the appendage pulled back, only to further itself with more force. Ford unconsciously bit down on the tendril between his teeth, it unraveling from his head as the other pushed further into him with reprimanding force. A startled cry led a shaky moan, tentacle winding a curved section over his prostate. “O-ohh...d-do that again,” he panted, wondering if the tremor in his voice was as obvious as it sounded. And Bill was happy to oblige, and more than happy to see just how simple it was to bring his human to his knees, even if they happen to be his arm knees this time. Ford shuddered on the third pass, body starting to reflexively tighten less and less with each internal stroke. His mind spun, trying to analyze his reaction, particularly in the dreamscape, but every half-formed thought was met with a wet thrust into him and a tightening stroke of his cock, mind now just an etch-a-sketch that Bill held tightly in his clutches.

His mind became a haze of carnal impulse, the smooth and rhythmic pace the tentacle pushed and pulled from his body almost hypnotic, and he could feel his focus dwindling, dropping his head more as the coil around his neck loosened. He watched the substance over his arms melt slowly away, but he made no effort to move, closing his eyes as his body shifted with the movement of the tentacles around him. He barely startled when several navigated under his shirt, tugging at his skin and smoothing it over. And Bill watched him carefully—every flinch, every hitch in his breath, every sultry moan that was no longer dragged out of him, but offered freely. He thrived with praise, and Ford was certainly doing a good job of making him feel exceptionally skillful.

The scientist slowly pushed himself up, locking his arms out straight against the warm flesh under him as he cantered his hips with the movement of the appendage in him, breath heavy and body trembling, and Bill felt his eye widen slightly, pupil giving a flicker of dilation. And suddenly the experience felt significantly less one sided. The tentacles along his body guided him further upright, another winding into his grasp before seeking out the eager heat of his mouth. He moaned around the intrusion, low and too obscene, tongue sliding along the length as it shallowly mimicked the movement of the other buried deep inside him. And for the longest time, he felt like he couldn't think about anything—just act. Just exist, in this moment, with no past or future. A world beyond the construct of time.

He felt the gravity around him change, tendrils laying him backwards until his back was met with the contoured shape of the tongue under him. The tentacles in him resumed their pace, drawing a guttural moan from him against the one filling his mouth. He drew his leg up and braced his boot on the flat of the tongue, other hanging loosely over the edge of the pliant surface, shuddering again at the change in sensation. And for a moment, Bill felt his attention stray, watching his human writhe and pant and draw ever closer to a level of orgasm he doesn't know exists. His ministrations had fallen to impulse rather than conscious bidding, and in that moment they shared that wonderful surrender to themselves and each other. The tongue tip curled over Ford's shoulder, hand meeting it just as tenderly, other hand becoming bound up by the tentacle that slid from the man's mouth, tip stroking up his palm and between his fingers. They both could feel his body tighten, breath shorter and laced with small and needy noises. The tentacle coiled around his cock tightened, drawing long, slick, and perfect strokes up and down the length of his shaft. His fingertips tightened against the tongue, feet flexing in his boots, bright light blurring the edges of his mindscape and closing in. “Oh, God, yes, Bill,” he gasped between breaths, climax surging through him, body jerking taut as he came with a desperate cry, light bursts around him almost blinding even to his closed eyes. His body fell slack, jolts still running through him as he fell from orgasmic high, cock pulsing against the still tight rings of tendril around him that slowly milked him. And in him he could feel a different heat swell, realizing the tentacle in him was still in him and pulsing as it shifted, curiosity rising in him, but it just as quickly withdrew with a thick, wet noise that made the scientist shiver.

His breathing leveled, mind still reeling, thoughts racing as he committed as much as he could remember to memory. He let out a heavy, but contented, sigh, fingers idling with the tentacle that wove through them. He expected exhaustion and sleep to find him, but realized there was no where to go from there, and also realized that they could do this all night—a thought he tried not to entertain considering their discrepancy earlier. He also came to the realization that he hadn't awoken. He had been working on that as a form of lucid dreaming when they had spent intimate moments together before, but this was certainly strong enough to knock him back into consciousness. ' _”It's just a dream.”_ ' he recalled—' _Then why couldn't I wake up?_ '

“ **Feel** better?” Bill chimed in, successfully distracting the man from his train of thought.

Ford felt the blush rise against in his cheeks, watching the edge of the space fill back in with celestial bodies. “Yes. Quite.”

“ **Good**!”

“You?”

“Ahh, I **always** **enjoy** time with **you** , Sixfingers.” Ford could feel the unease well in him at the compliment—it wasn't unusual, but it always seemed atypically sentimental for a cross-dimensional being several millenia in age.

“Yes. So, it seems,” he mused, the feeling of the cooling liquid running down his skin a not-so-pleasant reminder. “Did you... “ he started with apt confusion in his voice, “you know... 'finish'?” He meant to sound more confident and less like a teenager, but that idea didn't land as well as if took off in his head.

“I don't **know**.”

“Are you... supposed to? How does that work?”

“Who **knows**!”

“Doesn't your species, er, reproduce?”

“ **Nope**! But **you** sure **make** it **look** like a **good** **time** , eh, Fordsy?” This wasn't the first time he had shared this level of mindscape integration, but it was certainly the best he could remember—pain was fun, but this... This was an unprecedented level of entertainment and satisfaction. And Stanford was such a wonderful vessel, receptive, flexible, impressionable, and curious; so deliciously curious.

“Well, you make it easy,” he smiled, and he didn't want to, but the endorphin hit had him spinning still. He looked over to the tendril wound around his arm, trying to run his fingertips over it. The tongue tip laid over his shoulder flicked at his neck just under his jaw, Ford turning in to the touch, rewarded with more. “Mm...maybe we can... do it again sometime.” Just suggesting it he hated himself—he didn't want to feel this out of control or this needy, but he  _wanted_  it, and he wanted whatever it was Bill was giving him in droves.

“Anytime, Sixer,” came the surprising response. And there was truth to that. Bill didn't really mind any of it for a myriad of reasons; it didn't actually cost him any time, it enamored Ford with him more, and it was a fantastically educational experiment. And somewhere a part of him enjoyed seeing his human so happy. A tendril snaked up and over Ford's chest, sliding between his lips, earning a quiet moan while another rolled and squirmed just under and around his still half hard cock. If this time was an indication of how ingrained in to Ford's neurochemical receptors he was becoming in the physical plane, each time was just going to get better.

 

\--------

 

A particularly pliant and slimy tentacle threaded through the tears in his briefs, a quiet whimper escaping him at the thought, anger and fear and humiliation melding into a nauseating cocktail in his stomach. At least the kids weren't here and Stan was far beyond a grown man—a grown man who had to be subjected to his twin brother who he only recently recovered after a thirty year endeavor to bring him back from the demented dimension he caused him to be catapulted into in the first place be sexually tormented and violated by a cross-dimensional chaos god bent on destroying the fabric of their universe that said brother invited in in the first place and actually used to borderline beg for this kind of treatment from. No problem. His chest heaved up, a weak noise following, tentacle slithering back and fourth along the tight pucker of muscle, rolling over and caressing the rest of him. The tongue wriggled in to him, a silent cry caught in Ford's throat as he pulled against his holds. “Easy there, Sixer, don't break a hip.” The tongue pushed deeper, writhing around inside him, pressing and sliding against his flesh as it explored him, eliciting a sultry moan from the man. “There you **go** , **now** you're **gettin** ' **it** — **just** like old **times**.”

 _'Fuck you.'_ was what he wanted to say, but the words escaped him as the tongue slithered deeper into him, other tightening around his thigh and cock in one fluid movement, a shuddering breath following the heat that shot up his neck and in to his cheeks.

“Let him go, you—you over-glorified book-weight!” There was a pause in Bill's movement, eye darting up to Stanley as he heckled him further. “Yeah, that got your attention, you hippie store trinket; you look like a goddamn nacho chip. Quit pickin' on the nerd and come over here and fight **me**.”

_'Stanley, you idiot!'_

There was another pause before a sharp cackle above him. “ **Your** brother's got **guts** , that's for **sure**. I **wonder** how they'd **look** with the **rest** of my **décor**.” The hands on his wrists lifted and Stanford reached for the demon, fingertips pulling at the grooves in the sandstone.

“Wait! Please, stay with me,” he pleaded, fingers reaching out to intertwine with an idling tongue, praying his voice sounded less desperate that it did in his head. _'Focus, Stanford.'_ “I...I need you,” he admitted, swallowing hard. And he hated that there was a facet of truth to that, but hopefully enough to make it sound sincere. The slivered pupil shifted back down to the man under him, examining him, frustrated by the metal barrier between him and his human—the only human that could lie to him. The tongue in him shifted again and Ford's eyelids fluttered, a small noise escaping him.

“ **Change** of **heart** , eh Fordsy? I don't **know**... I **think** I'll need some **more** **convincing**. You **know** how **much** I love **evisceration**.” There was a perverse expectation in his voice, and he could feel the human shiver under him at the thought—what _would_ his human do for his family; what a stupid concept. Though, if he could get Ford to humiliate himself it may be just the leverage he needed to get his answer.

Ford swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment as he thought. He slid his hand free of the tentacle as it wound up his arm, hands smoothing over the surface of Bill's middle section. “Please... I need you, need your touch, my teacher,” another slide of the tongues over his body, “my muse.” He gripped the surface of the tetraform, arching towards him with a gasp as the tongue in him pressed harder, another finding his parted lips and gently sliding past them. Ford winced slightly, heart pounding in his ears as he eased himself into the demon's clutches, tongue curling against the black tentacle that prowled his mouth, the taste too sweet as it stuck to every inch it touched. Bill's eye scanned over the man again, watching the blush rise high in his skin and the way his body moved with his tongues—too easy. He may be able to lie through his teeth, but the scientists body was a treacherous snitch, and if Ford wasn't going to sing like a canary, Cipher could count on his human's body to do it for him.

“ **Good** boy,” the demon beamed, savoring the prurient way Stanford surrendered to him. His eye slowly tracking up to Stanley whose hands vibrated against the square-edged bars, jaw clenched so tight it was worsening his pounding headache. Bill's eye rolled back into a toothy grin, black tongue licking over his lips before blinking back to insidious black.

Stan's whole body shook, opting for kicking the wall of the prison rather than punching it. There were few instances in his life when he could recall feeling this much seething rage and hatred, but none of them were coming to mind. He turned away, unable to process what exactly was happening to his brother—part of him knew better, knew that Ford couldn't have actually wanted it, but his mind screamed ' _ **traitor**_ '.

 

 


	3. Take My hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starts with another flashback. This story took a weird turn, but I think it's going to end well.  
> And thank you for the kudos and comments; they're always appreciated.  
> Enjoy!

Saliva collected on his bottom lip as he panted into the cold air around him, spilling down in strands to the garnet-colored sandstone beneath him, matching the strings of fluid that flowed from his solid and needy cock. The thick length of pitch black tongue writhed in idiosyncratic rolls and turns in him against his prostate and he was far past the initial tremors and twitches that the movement would typically illicit, replaced by a steady pulse in his cock of streaming precum down his length and down to the surface he kneeled on, fingers threaded through conical teeth as he held himself steady, gravity so light he felt like he could float away with a hard enough breath.

The glowing slit pupil watched him with an almost tender regard—almost. It was observing, cataloging, and responding, and a part of Cipher enjoyed seeing Ford so raw and reduced down to his purest form—chaos. The man in this state could only think about the immediate moment; no contrite planning, no anxiety-driven formulations to repeat until they were exhausted, and still possibly wrong, and no concept of social propriety. The human's anatomy was so complex and always surprising, and as much as he could read about them, his curiosity was so delightful to indulge, particularly with a willing victim. Dissection and anatomic study could be gained from any body, but this... this required a sophisticated level of manipulation, and still beyond that, a more sophisticated understanding of how delicate and flexible their physiology interacted with their mind; endless strings that vibrated with the slightest pluck, a chorus—symphony—of beautifully interlaid functions.

A keening moan illuminated star clusters in the distant space of his mindscape, lost on the man but not the dream-traveler. And possibly the best part of all of this was just what his Fordsy would do for these other-worldly pleasures, a man devout to this work, and so vulnerable to physical form that his mind could not escape. Fine lines of tear stains trailed down his cheeks, the sensation growing overwhelming, and in another time he would wonder how Bill could so expertly recreate the physical world responses of his body, but in this moment, and every other, it was the farthest from his mind, so he'd have to settle for never getting his answer, but if this was what he would get instead he reasoned that he could accept not knowing. A digit nearly the size of his torso pushed at the man's shoulder, instructing him in to sit back, his body readily complying. A wet gasp turned into a moan that seemed to echo through the expanse around them as the tongue pushed deeper into him, the stretch and burn and fullness so viscerally real, and for a fraction of a moment Bill's amusement flashed over his eye.

A tendril began to creep up each arm from the wrist, winding around his forearm up to each elbow until the coils were snug against eachother and his skin. They pulled his arms back, bowing his body and setting his shins snug against the stone surface. The tongue slid out to the tip and pushed back in, a pitch wavering noise sparking a moment of embarrassment in the scientist as he jerked against his binds. The moment passed as quickly as it came, the flush he felt up his chest and neck now attributed to the rhythmic thrusting of the tongue deep into him, appendage writhing on each pass, and he couldn't control the broken cries that echoed through his mindspace. “O-oh, god...” he panted, cock painfully hard as he tried to bring his mind toward orgasm. The pace slowed to a tortuous and languid slide, slick running cool trails down his skin and under his thighs. Ford whined quietly, taking in a few breaths before opening his eyes slowly to the scrutinizing gaze of his muse. “Sorry,” he breathed, looking away with a flicker of shame. The tongue slid out of him with a wet splack, glimmering slime dripping down and swirling with the translucent pools on the brick. Ford dropped his head, brow furrowing in annoyance at himself; he was impatient. He had all he could ever want and he was still impatient. Bill would give him anything he wanted and did—they must have been at this for hours, or whatever that meant here. He wouldn't have ever thought he could feel this much pleasure without his muse, and he was ungrateful.

He felt his weight lift from the surface, looking to the eye that was squinted with an implied smile, drifting farther form him with the direction of the binds on his arms. And suddenly he could feel where he was going, looking down with a distinct dread at the barely distinguishable mass of squirming black just between the second and third section of the demon's form, illuminated only by the cast of light from his teeth. “No, no, please, Bill.” He struggled as he grew closer, fear and uncertainty swelling. All he could think about was the hungry mass of god knows what waiting for him like a pool of piranha, or, more accurately, a pool of blood-thirsty hagfish, ready to rend his flesh from his body, or worse, burrow in to it.

“ **Relax** , Sixer. I'm just giving you **what** **you** **want**.”

“I want to be back where I was! I won't do anything, I **swear** , please. I won't even think about _breathing_.”

“I **know.** ” The cheer in his voice made Ford's stomach turn, and he could hear the slick movement of the sea of dark beneath him. He shuddered as he could feel the heat radiate from the mass—was it from sheer friction? He tried to pull his legs up, away from the tendril tips that reached up for him, fighting those that successfully ensnared him, but to no avail. He made a concerned noise as he was pulled down towards the others, a startled a panicked cry swallowed in the immediate space as the binds around his arms abruptly dropped him. He fell hands first into the roiling tentacles, arms immediately bound where they landed, sinking in to the hungry mass that crawled up his arms and legs. He thrashed as he sank further and further, quickly consumed by the sea in the matter of a ripple.

 

His heart pounded as he swallowed, trying to remember any of the transition to the now consuming darkness around him. He was suspended in emptiness, or what seemed like, wrists and ankles bound by the tentacles that felt like they were breathing, drawing him out like the circular vitruvian man. A large eye opened in front of him, the line of gold illuminating the writhing walls of interlacing tendrils, a spike of anxiety shooting through him again. Several more eyes opened around him, a heavy, hot, and wet slab of flesh rolling across his back, sliding around his waist and up his chest. Ford made a small noise, flexing his body towards the tongue that lathed around his body. It wound up and across his neck and pulled across his shoulder blades, sliding back down and along his ass, pushing between his thighs, one long stroke drawing from still solid cock-tip to his lower back. The scientist's head tipped back in a low moan, blush burning his cheeks under the studious eyes around him. The tongue repeated the action while other appendages blindly examined him, tips seeming to melt against his skin into flattened ends that pulled and gripped his skin as they prowled his body. He moaned again with Bill's name somewhere in the sound, tongue curling up on a stroke, pressing into him with little effort, his body tightening reflexively. It slithered further into him, quickly growing too thick to proceed and withdrawing, several of the tendrils wrapped around him quickly replacing it, the yelp they earned not inhibiting them. He choked on a sob as he took in a deep breath, tendrils squirming further into him with a sickening slickness, and by Xolotl was it so exceptionally perfect. A thin vine wrapped around the base of his cock, squeezing so right and winding further up his length.

He had no idea how long he hung like that, in a blurry and ecstasy ridden haze of sensation, and at times he could swear he could see other universes in the writhing darkness. All he could hear was the wet pulsing of slimy flesh, his heartbeat in his ears, and his labored breathing into the space around him as he hovered just below orgasm. He could feel the constant shiver of his body under stress, mind emulating his reactions better than he could ever have imagined.

 

\-------

 

Ford panted hard into the space between them, lights dancing on the edge of his periphery as he grew closer again to orgasm. “P-please, Bill... I can't.” It was the third time he had come just to the verge of climax, only to be denied it, and each time the pull grew stronger and stronger, and Bill still retained his ability to tell just when and where that was with Stanford. The scientist nearly trembled in the winding binds of the tentacles that wrapped around his legs, arms, and torso, Ford suspended just inches from the ground, but comforted in the familiarity, and sickened by it.

“Ready for that **deal** , Fordsy? I can **do** this for **all** **_eternity_** , **remember**??” The thick tentacle in Ford rolled lazily, Ford's hands balling into fists behind him as he moaned a drawn out 'Oh, god'.

Bill squinted with the same intent as a wicked grin, waiting for the physiological event horizon in his human. And Ford couldn't take it; his head rolled back with a low sob, Bill's motions slowing just enough to keep him from coming. His vision started to darken around the edges, Bill's laugh echoing in his brain. “It's just the **tip** of the **iceberg** , Sixfingers,” was the last thing he heard before passing out.

The sharp laugh that built stung Stanley down through his nervous system, grinding his teeth as he sat against the far side of the cage, sudden silence drawing his attention, much to his chagrin.

 

Ford crashed into dark water, looking up at the rippling surface as he sunk farther and farther into the dark. He closed his eyes, falling out of the other side of the water and into the clutches of several tendrils. “Hey there, gorgeous. Enjoy your beauty sleep?” echoed Bill's voice in the distance. The fog around Ford settled, nothing but dark in the distance, binds around him tightening. “Now, about that algorithm...”

“What makes you think I'd ever tell you?”

“Because **deep** **down** you want to, **Fordsy**.” Tips of the binds wound under his clothes, brushing gently over his skin.

“What are you talking about?”

“You want to **know** what **happens**. **Sure** , you think your **family** will be **safe** too.”

“Isn't that part of the deal?” he asked begrudgingly.

“Is that **what** you **want**?”

“No. I don't trust anything you say—you could turn them to stone and they'd still be safe.”

“Ever **thoughtful** , huh, **brainiac**.” The tendrils slid down and around his groin and up along his neck, pushing his legs up and apart, and Ford felt the heat rise in his cheeks, trying to fight it. “What **do** you want, **Stanford** Filbrick **Pines**?”

His name drew his attention, looking up into the ominous and infinite space around him. He didn't like when Bill used his name—it was usually a very bad sign. “I don't know.”

“Then let **me** tell you what **I** want.”

“I know what you want. You want the algorithm so you can burn my world to the ground with your insanity. There's nothing you can do to me to make me talk—you'll never get it.”

“ **I** **know**.”

Ford's brow furrowed, and hated that he had to ask. “You know what?”

“That you **don't** have **it**.”

He swallowed.

“Did I **ruin** your big **reveal**? Was that **supposed** to be part of your _**plan**_?” Tentacles coiled tighter around his swelling cock, his breath hitching, loathing Bill's ability to manipulate him in this realm.

“What are you talking about? Of course I have it.”

Bill laughed. He laughed. “You **seem** to **forget** the reason you **needed** me in the first place, **IQ**. **Why** , if **you** couldn't figure it out _**with**_ my help, would **thirty** **years** of **dimension** **jumping** have changed that.”

Ford closed his eyes, resigned—he had no cards left in his hand, and they weren't playing hearts. “So, why are you doing all of this?” He drifted when he leaned back, rotating slowly as he thought, tentacles turning with him, around him, and, shortly, in him. His heart sped up, lips parting as his mind was pulled to the intensely pleasurable writhing in and against him, marveling at the sensation—was it from the physical plane?

“I **like** you, Fordsy.” A delicate, small, and perfectly smooth hand combed through his hair. “My **offer** still **stands** —what do you **say**?”

“Mm...What's in it for you?” he almost couldn't put the words in the right order, Bill's eye squinting in to a smile as he watched his human smolder.

“You just **leave** that to **me**.”

“You want the solution,” he breathed, brow furrowing as his climax approached, heart pounding in his ears.

“Oh, **Fordsy** , you can **read** me like a **book**.” The tentacles slowed, Bill's eye opening in the dark. “You be **my** **good** little **scientist** and help **me** get out of Gravity Falls, and **I'll** give you **whatever** you need to **make** that **happen**.” Ford's breath hitched, words on a loop in his mind. “Besides, Sixfingers... _**you owe me**_.” ' _Owe me...owe me..._ ' His mindscape grew dark, golden sliver the only thing that remained, fading in the consuming dark.

 

“So, do we have a **deal**?”

 

Ford lurched back in to consciousness with a sobbing moan, orgasm crashing through him harder than he could ever remember, unconsciousness threatening him again as his body jolted in his binds. Each breath ended with a small noise, heart pounding so hard he could feel in it in his throat, and the tendrils wrapped around his limbs began to loosen. His thoughts began to come back to him slowly, feet touching down to the smooth stone, body still dropping as the tendrils lowered him to his knees. His body shook as he tried to support himself, arms locked against the cold stone as the tentacles withdrew from him.

“Well, Fordsy..?” A pitch-black right hand offered itself to him, blue fire whipping around it. Ford looked up, beaten and exhausted, with nothing left but what he always had—his mind. Bill floated in front of him, form blackened over.

 _'How much more of yours could I be?'_ Ford hesitated, closing his eyes as he capitulated and took the hand, fire whipping up his arm, engulfing his body as he floated away from the ground. He pulled his arms up defensively, a coil of fire spinning up his body, clothes rematerializing as his boots cast over in the same rich black as the demon, pants following, turtleneck to a bright yellow, jacket spilling over with the black and rainbow lined pattern Cipher wore. The fire burned away, Ford floating in his spot, looking himself over from hands to feet and back up to Bill's smiling eye. “You look pretty **sharp** , Fordsy. Go **ahead** and see if I **tuned** you up **right**.”

“How?”

“Just use your **imagination** , smart guy.”

He thought for a moment before conjuring several books, laying them out in front of himself, pulling words from the pages to hover in front of himself, laying them back in place and disappearing them. He turned in his spot to the cage Stanley was in, deconstructing it. Stan was facing away from him, arms crossed and shoulders pulled in. Ford's eyes closed, dreading the imminent fallout from his decision. He floated down and towards him, feet touching down, the walk between them seeming miles apart. He indicated a circle next to his brother with a ring of fire, Dipper and Mabel popping up out of the temporarily non existent floor.

“Grunkle Ford!” They yelled in unison, running up to him, Stan turning and surprise and distress, reaching for them as they dashed out of range.

“You're alive!” Mabel yelled as they fell in to his arms when he lowered himself to one knee. “And what are you wearing,” she snorted as she chuckled, stepping back with her hands on his shoulders to look him over. “Did you—” she stopped, gaze lifting over his shoulder to Bill who floated with his arms crossed, legs straight as if reclining back against something.

“Grunkle Ford, look out!” Dipper pointed to Bill, who feigned alarm with his eye.

“Don't worry kids; you're Great Uncle Ford here's made a deal with the devil,” Stan scowled, placing a guarded hand on each of the younger twins' shoulders

“You know that's not what happened; stop being obtuse.”

“Funny, that's exactly what it looked like from where I was **avoiding eye contact.** ”

“This isn't the time,” Ford tried to dismiss, face hard as he stared up at his brother.

“Well, when was the time?? When you were--” he stopped himself from cursing in front of the kids. “ _playing_ _nice_ , or when you were giving us all up to that lunatic?”

“I saved your life, Stanley—you could at least _act_ like you're grateful.”

“You son of a--” he cut himself off with a growl.

“Grunkle Ford...that's not true, is it?” Mabel asked, eyes glassy.

Ford sighed, standing slowly. “I have to go away for a bit, shooting star, while I try to sort this out,” his gut turned when the name left his mouth, trying to hide his horror, but it had already washed over Mabel, the young Pines taking a step back away form him.

“Yeah, he's got a hot date with his demented, demonic boyfriend,” Stan spat as he rolled his eyes.

“Stanley! Mabel, Dipper, please—I did what I had to to protect you.”

“That's **right**!” The bright, treble voice of the demon chimed in. “And now he's **all** **mine**.” Ford's feet left the ground, being pulled back away from the others. “Speaking of which, I know I obliterated time as a construct in this dimension, but I'm kind of on a schedule here, Fordsy.” Ford reached for Mabel who lunged for him, held back by Dipper and Stan who took Dipper's other hand.

“Uncle Ford!”

“It'll be okay, Mabel. I promise. Take care of your brother and Stanley.” His heart sunk as betrayal and fear shined in her tear stained eyes—the same look Stanley had given him that night when the portal took him up. His eyes met Dipper's for a moment—he wore the same expression he had given Ford when he first learned about Ford's past deal with Bill—and the scientist couldn't bring himself to look at Stanley before he cast them out in a ring of fire, the three of them dropping to the wall of the mystery shack as it lay on its side in the wasteland.

“We have to go back for him!” She yelled, choking on the sob that flooded up.

“There is no going back! He made his choice. He doesn't care about family, he cares about himself—and thirty years hasn't changed that.” Stan had plenty of practice masking his emotions, and this time was no different, but the pain was so much stronger. He spent most of his life trying to bring Stanford back, and for what. For that display and to just give himself over like some harlot. Stan crushed his fez in his hand as he removed it from his head, tossing it to the ground as he walked away.

 

Bill floated, reclined on his side, sipping punch out of a glass. “Tough break, Sixer. Thirty years, and your family still doesn't want you. It's okay, though; I'll keep you. 'Til the end of time, right?”

“'Til the end of time,” he repeated hollowly, drawing out a translucent blue pane on which he began to write out some baser functions of anomalous movement through the area of Gravity Falls. The pen shook in his grip, swallowing as his eyes welled, a hot, wet line running down his face.

 


	4. Dance With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no sex in this. It's all plot! Ahahaa. No, really, but that's fine for most people, so i hear. So here you go. Enjoy!

The young Pines twins sat hunkered next to each other on the floor, backs against Mabel's bed, her knees up to her chest and Dipper's straight out in front of him as he stared at his feet.

“You know we have to go back, right?”

“I don't know, Mabel. What if Grunkle Stan is right? I mean, he did _join_ Bill.”

“We don't know what happened, Dipper. Grunkle Ford said something about saving our lives, so maybe it **was** the only way to save us. We didn't finish the zodiac—maybe we still can use it.”

“Except Ford's the only one who knows it—Bill destroyed the journals, remember?”

“When did that happen?”

“When I tried to punch him in the eye,” he said with a disappointed tone, annoyed that he thought that was a good idea; maybe he'd still have the journals.

“What! When did that happen?”

“You were in Mabel Land.”

“Oh...”

There was a long pause between them before she spoke again. “I'm sorry, Dipper.”

“Sorry for what? This is mostly Grunkle Ford's fault,” he grumbled, pulling his hat bill down.

“Not entirely...” she winced, shrinking into herself.

“Well yeah, I mean I guess it's Bill's fault too.”

“And mine.”

“What are you talking about? You're the one who's been able to stop Bill before.”

She sighed, a heavy and remorseful sigh, looking down at her feet over the edge of her knees. “I gave Bill the weird crystal ball thingy.”

“What?”

“The one in your backpack. But it was an accident, I swear! I didn't know what it was, and he was using time-travel guy” she cut herself off, pursing her lips before she became hysterical, tears welling in her eyes. “Now we might not ever see Uncle Ford ever again,” she said quietly, pulling her sweater over her knees.

“Whul, at least the shield held up,” he mused, looking up around the room, trying to change the subject for Mabel's sake. “And I'm sure Uncle Ford's okay.”

“Are we gonna be okay?”

“We'll always be okay, Mabel,” he smiled, pushing his shoulder against her's. “Boop.” There was another pause, Mabel looking over at him. “I guess we better figure out how to save the world...and Uncle Ford.”

“Mystery twins?”

“Mystery twins.”

 

 

Ford sat in the edge of the inverted triangular window he had created in the side of the fearamid. He was hammocked in the bottom angle, legs crossed at the ankle as they extended up one side, arm dangling just outside, other rest over his belt. He was in a room, sequestered away by his own design so he didn't have to hear the incessant nattering of Bill's annoying friends as they came and went. And more importantly, he had easy aerial access to the Mystery Shack. He had attempted, several times, to change its structure so it at least had a floor again, but found his new imbuement ineffective against it—probably for the best that the seal was still up. Instead, he worked around it, manipulating matter in the physical world proving slightly more difficult than the dreamscape, but he was a fast learner. He reorganized the parts of the mecha that lay strewn about the area as close the the shack as possible, assembling them into a makeshift barrier. It felt like a week had passed, but it had only been a day—with no sun it was a difficult determination to make.

He jumped when a thin tendril brushed over the back of his neck, igniting it when it pulled back, refusing to avert his gaze from the desolate land. “ **Touchy** , **touchy** ,” Bill teased, manifesting close to him. Ford didn't acknowledge him save for a furrowing of his brow, trying to will him away. “Nice little room you've made for yourself here—little depressing though, don't you think?” He looked around at the complete lack of anything but walls and the one window.

“What more could I possibly want?” he responded bitterly, turning his head straight ahead and closing his eyes as he settled against the stone.

“ **Sheesh** , Fordsy, you act like I actually **killed** someone. You took the **deal** , remember? You have **power** you could only **dream** about and you want to lay in a **window**? Fine—but I still want **my** **solution**.”

“It's not like you gave me a deadline.”

“Yea, I **guess** you're **right** , but that **reminds** me...” Ford glanced over as Bill opened a viewing window on his torso, the view scanning over a row of corpses arranged head to feet. “Get it? **Dead-line!”** He let out a sharp cackle when Ford grimaced, crossing his arms as he turned away. He let out a startled noise when he was yanked from the window by an intangible force, landing on his knees. He refused to look up until a firm hand grabbed his jaw, jerking his gaze upward. “Listen, bucko, I've had a **lot** of **time** to think about your last betrayal and **let's** just say--” he startled when Ford interrupted him.

“My betrayal?! You lied to me from the start!”

“I **gave** you exactly what you **wanted** , Sixfingers.” Ford was lifted in to the air, tentacle snapping tight around his neck. “ _ **Exactly**_ what you **wanted**.” The tentacle turned into a cold, steel collar, length now a leathery line of rope that was bound to the floor, quickly reeling in and yanking Ford to the ground with a hard 'thud'. The collar dissipated, Bill floating down in front of the man, manifesting a drink that he took a sip from. “And **now** you're going to give **me** exactly what **I** **want**.” A razor sharp claw hooked under Ford's chin, guiding his attention up. The scientist's eyes burned with an intensity that Bill had rarely seen in them, eye creasing as he smiled. Ford smacked the hand away, regretting the decision when he was hoisted in to the air. “You think this is the **worst** thing I can do to you? You have _**no**_ _**idea**_ the **horrors** I can put you through.”

“Because raping me in front of my brother was just a walk in the park, you quadratic prick.”

“Funny, I seem to recall a very **specific** four letter name coming to **mind** somewhere in the throes of passion— _oh-yea-it-was-me_.”

Ford hated the blush that bloomed in his cheeks, the obvious rise in his skin a dangerous tell that he couldn't afford to have—and Bill was so keen on making sure he took advantage of it as often as possible. He tried to fight it, the memory still fresh enough to cause a strong reaction, but he redirected the conversation back to an equally unpleasant topic. “Either way, I've been to your dimension—I know horror.”

A disembodied and incorporeal hand squeezed at his cheeks, shaking his head back and fourth slightly with a painful amount of pressure. **“Sure,** but what about your **family**? You saw what it did to your _partner_.” Ford swallowed, knowing they were safe in the shack, but for how long? Did they even have any resources left? Ford let out a tight breath through his nose, feet touching back down. “You know, you're kind of **cute** when you're **angry**.” Another tentacle brushed over Ford's cheek, the man smacking it away.

“Don't touch me,” he growled, gaze cutting across to the other who was just smiling. Bill was drumming his fingers in his mind as he reflected on that statement. Naturally, his first reaction was to illustrate to Ford just how much the man was his, but he knows how much easier it is to get his scientist to cooperate when he's writhing under him willingly—decisions. Perhaps he didn't need to change so much as Ford did—maybe a dip in the fountain of youth would make him a little more agreeable. If anything it would make the man more entertaining; Bill reminisced on the sway of Ford's libido in his younger years. If not that then it would sharpen his mind a bit more—time had a strange effect on mortals. Bill blinked and Ford was gone, having removed himself from the room while the demon seemed to have distracted himself.

Ford stumbled in to the center throne room, cursing to himself as he had been aiming for his study on a lower level of the castle. Matter manipulation was much simpler on inorganic matter—he wondered why that was. He looked himself over, making sure all of him made it through, though the splash of maroon that colored the upper left quarter of his sweater caught him off guard. He pulled it away from himself, assuring himself it wasn't blood as he paced across the room, trying to focus his attention on something purely abstract rather than the nightmare he was living.

The room suddenly darkened, the large triangular outline that blanketed Ford in absolute darkness almost lost on him. The spotlight of Bill's eye cast over him, the man shielding his eyes as he tried to look up at the demon, The outline of the light ignited in a rush of blue flame, closing Ford in. He could feel his skin grow more taut and full, hair licked with chestnut and thickening, and his posture becoming more comfortably upright. A tentacle wound around his raised wrist, locking against itself as it pulled him up, bright yellow spilling up through the darker color of his sweater. He floated, suspended in the air while the tentacle held his arm tight behind his back. Another pushed his face from side to side, Bill mock-inspecting him, Ford's gaze fierce as he resisted the examination. “What, exactly, is this supposed to accomplish?”

“Come on, **Fordsy** —everyone wants to be **younger**.”

“My formative years were riddled with disappointment, deceit, and terror—what makes you think I would want to re-live that?”

“ **Yeesh** —didn't make **you** **less** crotchety,” he responded, the eye-roll evident in his tone.

“I'm crotchety because you threatened my family, **fucked** me in front of my brother, dressed me up like a doll and trapped me here, you lunatic!”

“I'm **sensing** some **hostility**.” Ford closed his eyes because he had to or he knew he was going to lose his mind out of them. He felt the all too familiar creep of tentacles over his legs, Ford yanking his legs away from the proposition. Bill's small, yellow, and triangular form popped into his line of sight as Ford opened his eyes, trying to see where he needed to be avoiding. “What do you say we take that recently refurbished **body** for a test **run**?”

“I'm not exactly in the mood.”

Bill laughed. “No. I meant **literally!”** He dropped Ford from his hold, the man plummeting the thirty something feet with a startled yell before buffering his impact, but not enough to keep the wind in his lungs. He groaned as he pushed himself up on to his forearms, coughing as he tried to take in breath. “ **You** might want to **hurry** , Fordsy.”

He looked up to the sound of swiftly approaching footsteps, EightBall charging at him on all fours. He got to one knee, attempting to raise a wall of fire and failing, turning quickly and breaking out in a sprint, gasping in breaths. ' _It had to be running._ ' He looked back to the creature as it gained on him, looking up for a moment of grace and back down in time to see Paci-Fire headbutt his way through the far wall, glowing eyes settling on him. “Are you kidding me!” He scrambled into a turn, running purely on adrenaline as he tried to run faster, the impact of the steps behind him growing stronger as they closed in. He closed his eyes as he tried to focus, gesturing in front of himself repeatedly until a portal opened, dropping to his side as he slid through it just as EightBall lunged for him, flying just over him as Ford disappeared.

 

He crashed feet-first into a bookshelf, knocking several books over on to himself. At least he was where he intended. He laid there for a moment as he panted, closing his eyes and searching for his sense of calm in all of this calamity. He rest his hand on an empty book that splayed across him, picking it up and looking it over. It was heavy with a dark red cover and gold accents. He sat up quickly, looking it over as a smile grew on his face.

 

 

Ford sat over the edge of another window—triangular, and oriented as the fearamid was—watching the third object hit the roof of the Mystery Shack. He had made what was probably his greatest discovery, that being that he may not be able to put objects past the field, but he could drop them above the shack and gravity would do the rest, no bound by the ties of Bill's magic. He was certain this was annoying Stanley by this point, but a part of him drew satisfaction from that. Why did he have to be such a bullheaded, short-sighted—he sighed, running his hand through his hair. He didn't want to be annoyed with him, he just wanted him to understand. Wanted him to trust that Ford could actually make an intelligent decision, but it wasn't like he had earned that trust. Stan was usually right, and, to a certain degree, he was right this time too. Maybe he was actually the smarter of the two of them.

Dipper and Mabel cautiously emerged from the shack, Ford's heart lifting, unable to conceal the elation that washed over his expression. Mabel stretched an arm up, waving as hard as she could in hopes Ford would see her—he did, just barely. He dropped another small, flat, and round stone on to the roof, the twins wandering over to where it landed.

“What'cha doin', Sixfingers?” came the chipper voice behind him, Ford turning into the room, to see nothing, turning back and jumping at the sight of Bill floating several feet in front of him. “Feeding the wildlife, huh?” he remarked as he looked down at the house.

“I'm allowed to look after my family.”

“That's funny, considering you're the reason they're in this situation.” Ford barely reacted, fully aware of that fact, and Bill couldn't hurt him more with it than he had already done to himself. “I hope for their sake you're not planning anything.”

“Aside from being complicit in the destruction of my planet and probably my universe? No.”

“Good!”

Ford tried to hide his eye roll by looking off in a different direction.

“Then you probably won't be needing this:” the demon continued, manifesting the red journal from Ford's study, spinning it by its corner on his fingertip. Ford expression was nondescript as he looked over at the demon.

“No, I don't need it,” he said diffidently, watching Cipher's expression remain the same as he tried to decipher Ford's. “But you do,” he continued, a slight smirk in his voice. Bill's hand snatched the spine of the book out of the air, holding it up with a threatening implication.

There was a moment of tension between them, Ford trying not to smile as he watched Bill mull over what to do with it, or even open it. If anyone posed the demon a threat still it was him, but there wasn't anything Ford could do to him anymore...was there? After another moment Bill tossed the journal to Ford, the man smiling as Bill disappeared. He ran his thumbs over it fondly as he looked down at the book in his lap, savoring his small victory.

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot,” came the jarring edge of Bill's voice behind him, Ford jerking almost hard enough to knock him out of the window. He frowned at the book, tightening his grip on it. “I want you to start reporting to me about your progress.”

“Can't you just drop in on me like you usually do?”

“I don't want you to think I don't respect your personal space.” Ford huffed out a small laugh at the odious lie—he could have at least tried.

“Where and when should I do this 'reporting'.” Was this punishment for the journal?

“When is a relative term—how about every time you actually accomplish something.” Ford frowned at the backhanded insult, tracing the outline of the book with his fingertips. “And my room.” The scientist blanched at the prospect, the subtext brighter than his hidden notes.

“Isn't that a bit unprofessional?”

“You could also opt for on your knees in front of me on my throne with an audience. Dealer's choice,” he offered, gesturing out of habit.

“Why are the odds always stacked against me?”

“Because I own the casino, Sixer.”

Ford sighed, turning himself into the room, standing and straightening his clothes before he walked over to the demon. He reached out for him, Bill quelling a flinch before letting the man run his hand up the flat of his front panel, catching the bow tie between his index finger and thumb and giving it a gentle tug. “Whatever you like,” he said lowly, a faint curl to his lips as he removed his hand and walked past the entity. Bill pulled at his tie in the same spot, looking down at it as best he could—trying to mask his confusion. Ford stepped through a doorway into his study, the doorway sealing behind him, Bill turning to watch it dissolve.

' _Oh, so it's like that, is it?_ ' Bill's eye squinted in to a smile, laughing inwardly at Ford's adaptive ability to manipulate him—they were so much more alike than Ford would ever admit, but he was just as guilty in his later years of trying to wrap Bill around his finger, but his lack of experience made him vulnerable. Now the dream-crawler felt his curiosity grow—had only three decades change that? This game just got a little more interesting.

 


	5. Play It Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one? So soon? Must be demonic magic. Preludes to ludeness in this one. Please, enjoy.  
> Also, here's a song that goes great with the sentiment of the chapter. Check it out if you want--it's not bad.  
> Lyon Heart-Falling for You https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1qMWcdqVljc

Somehow this ended up being the most humiliating part of his incarceration—reporting. It was unnecessary and only served to remind Ford that he wasn't his own entity in all of this. It wasn't like Bill didn't know exactly what was going on at all times. Maybe he could just wait for Bill to pop in on him, but he wasn't willing to incur more of the demon's wrath; Bill still, moreorless, had his family hostage. Besides, the first two reports had gone smoothly with little incident—just ardent frustration on the part of Cipher. He let out a tired breath, gathering his resolve. ' _He's the same as he's always been—swallow your pride, update him, and leave._ ' It sounded good in his head. He took in a breath and knocked on the wood grained doors, flinching when an eye opened in the center of their triangular construction, Bill manifesting in the doorway. “Well, _hello-_ , **Fordsy**. What brings you **up** **here**?”

' _You know why I'm here._ ' “Just thought you'd like to know how my work is progressing,” he stated, averting his gaze in annoyance at the contriteness of it all—it all sounded so rehearsed because it was. Just going through the motions. ' _Good boy_.'

“Great! **Come** in.” Before he could protest, the red cast fell over him, yanking him by his dragging feet in to the room, door manifesting and slamming behind him. He stumbled into the center of the room when he was released, straightening himself and turning, giving his jacket a tug to smooth in out, more for sake of habit than appearance. Bill floated down next to him, wrapping an arm across his shoulders. “So, **tell** me the **good** **news—do** I get **my** **universe** yet?”

“Not quite—the weirdness of Gravity Falls is difficult because it's constantly fluctuating—there's no way to predict its behavior so creating an algorithm for it at any given moment becomes obsolete as soon as it's completed.”

“That doesn't **sound** like good news, Fordsy,” he warned, floating away from him.

“Actually, it is,” he corrected calmly, noticing how much younger his voice actually sounded with his body back at thirty. Bill turned, expression indiscernible. “I think I can create a solution that can adapt to the constant changes and better orient itself to the next likely series of variables that will occur. When they all align, the field will dissolve.”

“And how long will **that** take?”

“Does it matter?”

Bill looked him over, grabbing a drink that appeared and swirling it around in its glass as he thought. “Well, **you** got **me** there, **IQ,”** he responded surprisingly casually considering the news, taking a sip of his drink. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No. Thank you,” he swallowed—he wondered how his body would even react to whatever it was Bill was so keen on.

“Then how about a **seat**? You can tell me all about the specifics of how you're going to get me out of here.”

“I ...should probably get back to work.”

“What's the **rush?”**

Ford's brow furrowed, annoyed that the demon could even say that to him with a straight face, but he knew it was just to get a rise out of him. And this is exactly why he didn't want to come up here in the first place because he wouldn't leave with his pride or dignity in tact, and, as he had suspected, it was about to get so much worse.

Bill indicated the couch with his eye, his expression relaxed as he watched Ford struggle for his own escape. Even if Ford wouldn't give in to the way his pulse quickened and the implication of being locked in a room with the demon, he might slip up and tell Bill something important about exactly what he was working on. Having dominion over time provide him the luxury of wearing his mortality-hardened human down.

“Fine.” Ford turned towards the couch, walking up to it, hesitating in his step as it looked at him.

“Problem?”

“Can it be a different couch?”

 **“It** can be ' _whatever you like_ ',” he replied with a smugness in voice, Ford laughing inwardly that his statement so long ago had affected Bill as much as it did.

“Maybe something a little less creepy,” he offered with a glimmer of disgust in his voice.

Bill snapped his fingers and the couch rematerialized in plush, color-ombred velvet. “You're **missing** **out,** Fordsy.” He gestured towards the couch, Ford casting him an uncertain glance before walking tentatively towards it, sitting towards the far end. “There's a **good** scientist.”

Ford rolled his eyes, arms crossed as he looked off into the fire. He didn't want to feel flattered or doted on, but Bill had a particular knack for pushing all of Ford's buttons in just the right way. And he certainly didn't want to feel this way considering the situation—it certainly wasn't the way it was thirty years ago, though no one would know seeing them next to each other now. Bill floated down next to Ford's left shoulder, hand sequentially articulating around his right. Ford cocked an eyebrow, giving a sidelong glance over to Bill as he squeezed the man in closer. ' _Play nice,_ ' he reminded himself, frowning as he was reminded of his last argument with Stanley.

 **“Now,** why don't **you** tell me in **gratuitous** detail about how **you** **came** about this mathematical revelation?” he turned his other hand up as he spoke, drink blinking out of existence. Ford swallowed, anxious—he knew this song well. It was the same tune Bill used to play him before their falling out. ' _Don't fall for it,_ ' he had to remind himself. He felt his pulse speed up more, the hand against his far shoulder tightening.

“Well, years ago when I started, I had made the mistake of assuming that because the field seemed to manifest spherically, it had a central point of emission—like a core.” As he continued Bill watched him, attentive, but not responding. The more he let Ford talk, the more comfortable he became, even smiling as he tried to describe a mechanism with his hands, sharing a laugh with Bill. There was a hitch in Ford's voice that they both noticed when a pair of hands slid on to his shoulders, thumbs pressing gently at the base of his neck. And Ford was stricken with nauseating clarity—it was so easy. How did Bill do that so well? Some of the color drained from his face, continuing as the hands massaged at his shoulders. “So, when the solar flare emissions collided with the--” he had to swallow when another hand laid over his thigh, so perfectly smooth and dark, a dangerous abyss of temptation. “with the...” The hand slid further up, long, slender, and eerily human fingers tracing the inseam of his pants. “Maybe I should go,” he managed, body tensing as he went to stand, a pointed index finger pressed to his sternum to keep him in place.

 **“Nonsense!** You haven't **finished** telling me about **your** **equation.”**

'”Y _our equation”?_ ' “I...”

“You were talking about neutrino **interference** with anomalous magnetic activity.”

“Right.” ' _He was paying attention?_ ' Wait—he hadn't gotten to that part. “I just... I must be boring you.”

“Not at all!”

“Well, I'm sure,” fingertips over his groin, “you must know everything I'm describing already.”

“If I **knew** that, I wouldn't **need** your **help** , would I?” The hands on his shoulders rubbed a little harder, Ford wincing at the initial pain that melted into a comfortable warmth. This was so wrong, but it felt so good—he could almost pretend they were back thirty years and none of this cataclysm had transpired. That they were just lab-mates developing innovative science with some weird, interdimensional sex on the side. And Bill made it so easy to believe, but that was the idea. Had he grown suspicious of Ford's intent on deciding to stay? He tensed as the hand on his lap squeezed a handful of him, earning a low noise as he flushed half-hard. His body was certainly much more responsive, by design he was sure, as that must have been Bill's true intent for turning the clock back on him. But knowing Bill's intentions and motivations still weren't enough to convince his physiology otherwise—well played. “So?”

“Yes. Um... because of Gravity Falls' lateral location, it places...” a shift in his seat, “it places it in a...vulnerable...” The hand over his groin had morphed into a thick tentacle that rolled slowly against the form of his cock. “A vulnerable and receptive position for...”

“For...?”

“Corruption,” he breathed, resting his head against the back of the couch. Bill's eye flashed over with black, his delight becoming difficult to hide. Ford may think he's slick, but even if they had been on an even playing field from the start, the man's so-thought greatest self control would always been his greatest downfall. Ironic that humanity's end would be because of its need to proliferate. And the intangible strings on Ford's will wound ever tighter as the demon tuned him, his shorter breaths the beautiful and familiar overture to one of Cipher's favorite masterpieces.

The tentacle moved slowly against the shape of Ford's hardness through his pants, heart thrumming in his chest. He sighed as he settled into the touch, shifting as he spread his legs more, blush creeping up his neck as he became aware of the acquiescent gesture. Delicately placed hands spread down his chest from his collarbone, a soft groan following, that and a firm stroke along the underside of his length. Bill's eye creased up into a smile as he floated just behind the man, indulging in his ability to so thoroughly deconstruct Ford note by note and reassemble him into exactly the melody Bill wanted to hear.

The double doors that formed the triangular doorway to the suite burst open, a pillar of flame erupting in the doorway before the blackened form of EightBall stood for a moment before falling forward and crumbling on the floor. Bill had flushed an intense shade of red in the interim, Ford practically on his feet. The color of Bill's form bled back to bright yellow as he floated towards the center of the room, reassembling the monster, holding him in an incorporeal squeeze. “I **really** don't think I can be **clearer** than **'knock** **first',”** he said surprisingly flippantly, watching the creature struggle, clearly in distress.

“I think it's important,” he responded dimly, as if trying to remember why he had come up here in the first place, voice strained under the increasing pressure. “It's about the P--” and before he could finish the sentence, the invisible force crushed him, eightball eyes popping out and rolling across the ground before he and his body parts were vanished. Bill seethed, processing the information before quickly prowling the fearamid from where he floated, no indication of problem detected. He blinked away the agitation, turning back to Ford who was facing him with an uncertain expression—some of it was mortification, but he was becoming accustomed to the brutality of the demon. Now he was questioning how he ended up here in the first place, all of it.

 **“Now!** Where were we?” he beamed as he inverted himself through brick disassembly and reassembly, hands rubbing flush against each other.

“I... Maybe I should go,” Ford tried, anxiety keeping his feet planted.

“Whoa, where's the **fire,** Fordsy?” The doors disappeared and reappeared in the doorway via a climbing wall of flame. A tentacle nudged against his chest, trying to encourage him backwards to the couch.

“I should just... I should get back to work.” It wasn't a complete lie—he was in the middle of an important end to a facet of the work, and Bill would know that if he had actually been paying attention instead of just baiting Ford to talk so he could work him over. And anywhere that wasn't in Bill's immediate reach would be a blessing. It wasn't that Ford wasn't still aching and hard for the Everest worthy peaks of rapture Bill could bring him to, but that he wanted it; he was ridden with guilt and shimmers of disgust in himself. And he could easily justify the indulgence to himself—that's what made it so much worse. And maybe that some part of him was starting to feel worse about what he was planning—did part of Bill actually care about him?

Hands under his sweater snapped him back to his immediate situation, soft, pliant, and gentle hands that smoothed over his skin with such supple grace, thumbs guiding the line of his ribs as they inspected him as if Bill didn't know every inch of Ford front to back.

“I—,” he was shushed by an index finger over his lips, fingertips moving along his face until the thumb settled against his mouth, pressing past his lips while the other arm of the pair threaded through Ford's hair behind his jaw and up the back of his head. Another hand cupped his hardened length, stroking him through the fabric. He moaned quietly around the digit that pressed against his tongue. ' _Fuck_.' His constitution had all but turned to dust, blaming his recent invigoration of youth, but in actuality he longed for the dream-haunter's touch and the generous amount of adoration he showered on Ford—honest or not, the end result was the same, and his carnal impulse was no different. The demon was a master of manipulation, and he may as well have wrote the book on playing Ford; this may turn out to be his greatest composition—a potential they were both fully aware of and complicit in. And only for a moment longer did Ford loathe the idea when he saw the knowing way Cipher watched him fall—a conquest for the halls of his fearamid that paraded itself around. But the moment washed away when the couch scooted itself in to the back of his legs, knocking him back on to it with a surprisingly light drop. And there Ford could feel himself surrender. Surrender to that hot and wicked lust that coiled in his gut—surrender to Bill's advances, because even if he would take 'no' for an answer, he would soon have Ford crawling to him, begging for release because nothing of this world would do, and this was a better alternative than kneeling on those blood-shined floors.

Hands slid over his knees, pushing them farther apart as they rubbed up the inside of his thighs, Ford looking down to watch them join the other in molesting his groin, unbuckling his belt while another drew his zipper down. “Oh my...” he breathed, hands unfastening the button of his pants and sliding in past his briefs, one wrapping around his cock with several long pumps. The sheer dexterity and coordination of the many hands on him was impressive—he had been living with his for decades and they still seemed shamed by these manifestations of consciousness. He could already feel the micro-tremors in his legs, the hands pulling his solid member free, pushing the clothing down slightly. There was a very specific stress that went with Bill being so gentle, as if any moment could end up with him bound and gagging on a tentacle, bent over the arm of the couch—his tenderness always just seemed to serve as a mocking reminder of how grateful Ford should be when he was so kind to him; not that Ford didn't enjoy the alternative. He actually couldn't think of a time when Bill was anything but attentive to him in this situation, no matter what his perverted mind had led them to, or how in front of Stan it had been.

He groaned at the sudden pressure from the hand around his aching cock, the same ache tightening his chest. He lifted his gaze to Bill, who was floating some feet away from him, leg crossed over the other, watching Ford fall apart by his sole unraveling; an arsonist watching his desolation roar to life. And that made the man moan, feeling the heat burn in his cheeks, watching the licentious shine in the demon's eye as he reveled in Ford's delicious blend of unbridled desire and sickening resentment. The ever-present gaze of Cipher added a level of voyeuristic eroticism that Ford would hate himself for later, but in the moment he felt as if he could cum just from Bill's attention on him.

 


	6. Give Me Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the last chapter. Crazy. They were going to be two, but I just mushed them together. So, enjoy the gratuitous sex and the sudden finale. And thank you to my commenters and kudoers, I appreciate the feedback and support--it is well received.
> 
> Also, check out Boy Epic's song Trust released today--it's a great track for this final chapter.

Hands pressed over his abdomen as another pair hiked his sweater up further, thumbing over his nipples, a not-so-quieted moan tipping his head back into the cushion, hand around his cock squeezing as it slowly moved up and down his length. He thought on how long it had been—had it really been since Stan was there to see it? When was the last time he ate for that matter? Hadn't it been weeks? Had Bill just suspended him in time? Hm—he was going to miss that.

A slender-fingered hand guided his head back forward by the jaw, Bill now hovering just a couple of feet from him, expression neutral as he watched the man. Ford could feel each physiological change as it happened—honed and vivid in the physical world. Was he sweating? He was certainly salivating—how would that regenerate that if he was stopped in time.

Bill mulled over his next move—he wasn't losing Ford's attention, but he didn't like having to fight the man for it. His eye rolled over to those star-harboring lips, not giving the man the chance to react before they were on his, tongue sliding into his mouth with a vulgar insistence, flush rushing up into the scientist's face, cock throbbing in the grip. A hand clutched tightly at his sweater, keeping him locked in that firm embrace as that slender and malleable tongue coated the man's mouth with dark and glittering ooze. His brow pinched as he practically felt the chemical hit to his brain, heart fluttering gently and he internally cursed himself for a minute, cursing Bill in the next thought—how was he so good at this?

Hands cupped under his jaw, fingertips pressing gently at the curve of the bone, the hand on his cock quickening. A heady moan interrupted the breaths through his nose that came harsher and harsher, hands urging him into a deeper kiss when he tried to pull away. Ford tried to reach up, hands apprehended by another pair that threaded his fingers, pinning them against the couch next to his shoulders. His breath came in desperate rasps, an edge of panic to them that was only encouraged by the lightheadedness he began to feel. The tightness in his gut grew, right leg quivering under the touch of foreign hands as he shifted in his place, too many hands on him, holding him, playing him. He could feel a familiar darkness closing in on his mind, breath slowing as he swiftly approached unconsciousness. With an obscenely wet slurp Bill pulled away from him, long strands of syrupy fluid trailing from his still winding tongue to Ford's swollen lips. Ford gasped, choking as he tried to recapture breath, splattering shimmering globules across his lap, unconsciously pushing up into the dramatically slowed pace of the hand wrapped around his length. He whined through labored breaths, venturing a glance under his brow to the demon. Bill just grinned, that fang-laden, glowing, ominous, and too provocative grin, tongue winding out to stroke over the scientist's neck just above his collar. Every touch was too much and not enough as he fell from the edge of climax, leg still trembling as a hand wound under his thigh, pushing it up, shifting his body down as he slid against the smooth surface of the couch. Nimble hands slid his pants and briefs down further until they were taut against his upper thighs, the fabric offering no more give as it dug into his skin. Ford took in a tight, but calming breath, eyes tracking back up from his belt buckle to the deadly mouth in front of him, tongue still writhing against his skin, and it was sickeningly arousing, but that was his life. He would lie and say he hated it if anyone asked, and part of him did, somewhere deep down—rather hated that he was like this—but deeper still he loved it. He loved the backhandedly tender way Bill was with him, how maliciously affectionate he was, and how it showed in every touch or tangle or swipe or whip the demon graced his skin with. How he was always at his mercy, and always gave him exactly what he wanted, whether he knew it or not. The constant nag of danger in the back of his mind, and the unbelievably sensual way the being could hold him over the sheer cliff-face of climax and pull him back by the collar just to shove him over in his next breath.

Yes; he would certainly miss it.

He took in a sharp breath, to his surprise and Bill's delight, hand pressing to the curve of his exposed ass, thumb kneading mindlessly over the plane of flesh, spreading him just enough to make him uncomfortable, fingers so tauntingly snug against his skin. The slick movement of a firm appendage through the cleft of his ass was surprisingly warm, tingly, and too comfortable. He could feel the heat creep up into his ears, clothing suddenly suffocating as the firm tendril lathed across his flesh and that tight pucker up muscle that tightened in time with his chest on every pass—a wonderful reaction that Cipher did not have the luxury of torturing often; something the dreamscape was only a pale reflection of. Here Ford was all flesh, blood, skin, and hair. Molecules that all moved in tandem, endorphins, synapses, and electricity that danced and poured through his human more than any dream he could conjure no matter how thoroughly groomed to it. This was the perfect blend of physical plane and docility; any past experience was limited to the dreamscape or was soured in the flesh by defiance and resentment. This was the obedient and malleable dreamer he knew and the limitless potential of his physiological existence. If only he didn't have that metal plate, he could fully appreciate every thought, whim, tremor, and skip of his body and mind, but he was damned close.

There came an almost urgent squeeze from the man's right hand against the interwoven hand that kept his own cradled against the back of the couch, his hips moving once, twice with the tentacle as it flexed and slithered against him. “Well?” came the husky roll of the lower range of Ford's voice. An eye opened in the space next to Bill's form, a black hole of sclera, brimming with light but none within save for the radiating golden slit of pupil. His tongue licked slowly across the man's neck, Ford exposing more of it to him before leveling his gaze with the mouth, eyes lustful and narrowed and so patently controlled, averted to the single one that hovered in the space nearby. “Undo me.” And Bill felt what would have been the closest thing he could to a shiver of delight and anticipation. The initial surprise of hearing him speak melting into the elation of hearing his human's delectable plea for gratification—the words had changed, but the notes were the same, mellifluous and perfect.

Ford's head tilted slightly as his head moved to center his line of sight, the wry way he stared down the demon daring and challenging but beckoning and so irresistible to the creature. And he watched the subtle way Bill didn't move at all, pensive, and, for a moment, they were stalemated. His heart skipped a beat at the tension, the years of adoration, misery, ecstasy, and fatalistic hopelessness all converging to this moment of intimacy that they each had missed so direly. It was so simple, and that was the pure beauty of it all. His chest tightened around a lungful of air, tentacle slowly winding in to him, his body particularly accepting, and he opted for a quiet gasp over the smirk he fought to hide, lips parting with a strand of black and saliva, tongue coated and possessed by Bill's earlier application. The appendage slid farther in, pressing against the walls of his flesh, earning a very honest and eager moan, body reacting to the promise moreso than the action, and he could feel the arousal flood up him. The slick and thick tongue filled his mouth again, supple and masterfully sculpted lips almost melting against his again, catching another ribald sound as the man arched away from the couch, hands cradling his form, holding him down, drawing ghosting and hot lines along his skin, and tightening around his aching hardness. Another tentacle spiraled along the other, urging itself into the scientist, the man squirming, brow furrowing sharply at the stretch and tension, leg tightening as another rush of warmth blossomed up him. They meticulously worked him further open, their erratic motions causing small jolts of pleasure, his body responding with accompanying twitches and quieted noises. His chest heaved, a deliciously desperate moan spilling past the seal of their lips, echoing in the space of the room as a third tentacle squirmed into him.

Bill pulled back from him, viscous liquid spilling from the man's mouth down his chin and to his sweater, filling in the grooves of the fabric. He made keening noises as the tentacles developed a steady and synchronized rhythm in him, panting in to the little space between them, wrought with levels of sexual fulfillment he never expected to achieve, brain falling short of processing every sensation. And he then realized how far gone he was, that familiar and so faint tremble in his loins, sweat beading along his hairline, running down his neck and soaking into the collar of his sweater. “Oh, Bill--” he moaned, body pulling taut as he came hard, the moment dragging on as it crashed over and through him, razing his senses in its wake. He took in urgent, sound-addled breaths as he came down, appendages still squirming in him, filling him with something he was sure, gaining a depraved satisfaction in that. Ford relaxed back into the couch with a heavy sigh, slowly opening his eyes, swallowing as his gaze met Bill's, the demon's vaguely amused and inquisitive. There was a strange tension in the air between them as they each evaluated the other, as if there was suddenly an unfamiliarness to this dance of theirs. “How **close** are you to **finishing**?”

The question struck Ford oddly, misinterpreting Bill's intention initially, and for a moment longer until he realized he meant the equation. “Um... considerably. I just need to apply the--” A hitch in his breath interrupted him, the tendrils still in him winding in the soup of fluid that spilled down them and his flesh when they shifted.

“ _Good_.” Bill voice was level enough to catch Ford off guard, flush rushing back into his cheeks as the tentacles wound insistently in him, come slicked hand thumbing up the underside of his suddenly reinterested cock. He moaned softly, not yet having the breath in his lungs for anything else.

He was going to miss this—and Bill was going to make sure of that.

 

\-------

 

The book hit the rooftop, heavy with the guilt Stanford had pressed between the pages and the rock that it was bound to. Dipper was the first one out, picking it up, and looking gravely up to the familiar sight of the demon's enlarged form hovering near the fearamid. He frowned, running inside with the book tight in his clutches.

Ford landed roughly as Bill tossed him to the ground, getting to his feet and dusting himself off, quiet the entire time. That all too familiar cackle crescendoed, Bill growing as he pulled up translucent walls around him, bringing the equation in to the correct order. “I gotta _**hand**_ it to you, **Sixer** , I certainly had my **doubts.** ” He scanned through the different sections, moving pieces around. “Let's just **tidy** this **up**.” He pulled sections out, merging others together to continue the sequence.

“No! Y-that part is essential to the rest of the equation—it could unbalance it!”

“What's **that**? **Oh** , you mean the **part** that **destabilizes** the temporal rift to **my** dimension? You thought I wouldn't **notice** that part, **IQ**?” Ford blanched, watching the demon rake that section out of the function piece by piece. “You honestly **thought** I wasn't paying **attention?** Watching **you**? That I **t** _ **rusted**_ you? I have to **admit** , it was a **good** try; it took me some effort to **find** it.” Hands appeared next to him in pairs, clapping, but slow enough to be patronizing. “ **But** I'm a little **hurt** ; and after everything I've **done** **for** _**you.**_ ” A hand stroked under his jaw, Ford batting it away.

“Please, Bill, don't do this. I'm giving you the chance.”

He cackled again. “Ah, you always were **good** for a **laugh** , Sixfingers, but if you're done **stalling** , I have a **universe** to get _**freaky**_ with—I hope you won't get **jealous.** ”

The Pines family crouched behind an overturned car, yelping when a strong wind kicked up, bracing against the front panel. They could make Ford out in the distance, feet planted as the force kicked his coat up, arm shielding his face. Dipper went to run out, Stan grabbing him by the collar and pulling him back.

Bill pushed the walls out in a circle, writing glowing before it dissolved piece by piece, clouds pulling into a thick overcast over the valley, spiraled around the center. And as the last piece of the equation particulated into the air, the gravity lapsed for a short moment before the eerie amalgamation of sky began to pulse in waves, the force around Gravity Falls visually deteriorating.

Bill floated higher up, laughter almost deafening, pausing when he looked down to the stoic Ford, who was rooted to his spot.. “ **Well** , it's been **fun** , **Fordsy** , but I have to be going.”

“Yes, you do.” The rift above them cracked, breaking off in pieces that were pulled back in to the other side, Bill looking up and flushing a dark scarlet.

“ **WhAt**!? What did **you** **DO**?”

“I created a variable-adaptable algorithm for the immediate area of Gravity Falls. Unfortunately for you, destroying the weirdness around Gravity Falls includes your own. But I guess you were too busy reading the fine print—the fine print that actually would have spared your temporal rift.”

The demon seethed, his rage very evident in the way his form glitched and the intensity with which he stared Ford down.

“Of course I knew you would scrutinize every detail of my equation, so all I had to do was make a physics based reference to the structure of your rift and you'd zero in on it, especially if I snuck it in every report. That and keep you _distracted_.” Bill's eye furrowed, a hard glare settling on the man. “I'm sorry... did you think I trusted you?”

“You **wagered** your **universe** on THAT?”

“Consider it playing the odds. Next time don't hire a card-counter.”

The rift thundered, Cipher's cohorts being ripped from their scattered placement over the area and up in to the rift. The fearamid began to crumble, dissolving as it streamed back in to the rift. Bill began to feel the pull of the collapsing portal, appearing down in front of Ford. “No, **no** , _**NO**_! Fix it! _**NOW**_!”

“I'm afraid I can't; not after the temporal shift been implemented.”

“This _**wasn't**_ part of the _**DeAl**_!”

“You wanted out of Gravity Falls—I gave you ' _ **exactly**_ what you wanted'.” Bill mutated into a form Ford hadn't seen, towering and misshapen, colors mixing with eyes and mouth, long, sickle-like talons grappling in to the earth as he tried to resist the pull of the vortex.

“Time's up, Bill.” Stanford felt the pull of the vortex on him, lifting from the ground as Bill began to become unearthed. A long tentacle lashed out, wrapping tightly around Stanford's neck and pulling him faster towards the vortex as the demon became dislodged from his grip on the planet.

“You **tHinK** you're _**SAfe**_?? I'm **still** in _YOU_!”

“I know.” He closed his eyes, startling and looking back when a firm hand grabbed his with a panicked grip. “Stanley, let me go!”

“No! You can't leave me again, you bastard!” Tears were welled in the corners of his eyes, and he knew this look—it never changed, and it would always haunt him.

“I have to! Just let me go,” he choked, a warble in his voice that showed his vulnerability. Stan gave his hand a squeeze before Ford was yanked out of his grip by the lasso around his neck. Stan screamed in frustration and hurt, and the sound seemed like it alone shook the trees. Mabel and Dipper each took an arm of his, holding him back as he struggled to reach his brother. “Stanley... I'm sorry.” Stan felt his heart drop, shattering against the solid stone of his gut as he watched Ford drift farther and farther away—how could this happen again.

“Grunckle Stan, we have to go!” Mabel yelled over the force that whipped the air around them.

“No. I won't leave him again, we can save him.”

“Not like this, come on!” Dipper urged, pulling at his arm.

“Ford... I'll get you back.” He closed his eyes, letting the kids pull him back towards the shack.

Time seemed to slow in the moment the closer he grew to the vortex—like approaching a black hole, he thought. It was funny that he actually got to experience that effect—maybe he'd write about it one day. Was he approaching the speed of light? No. It was just being compressed in a way—the particles of light. How bizarre. He watched his family drift farther away, the coil around his neck tightening as he was drawn closer—the dying throes of a vengeful beast—a god even. Were there any myths akin to this? He had so much time to think now, and everything was so quiet, and for the first time, he actually wondered if this would kill him; was he already dying? Was he already dead? No—the love he felt swell in him and the relief that he could finally do something to protect his family was too real, too visceral. Protect his family. He had a family. He had a family that loved him, and he could finally do something to reciprocate that.

He felt the burn of the dimensional cross, Gravity Falls now just a sight through a quickly closing window. The storm of abstract fear and horror that swirled around him was a too familiar sight, gravity kicking in, or Bill's hold on him releasing as he hit the ground and slid. He pushed himself to his feet, gathering his bearings as quickly as he could—he needed to escape, fast. He slid in his step when the malformed beast manifested in front of him, and for the first time in a very long time, Ford was terrified. “ **You**.” He took a step back, eye following the monster's form up, eyes locking on the single one that rippled across the surface, crimson roiling out from a golden island of pupil. “ **You** think you've seen the **hOrROrs** of my **dimension**?? I will spend _**eternity**_ showing you _**FeAR**_ you've never known.”

 

 

“We have to hurry!” Mabel was leading the trio, poles too long for her to easily carry bouncing as she ran. Stan was behind her, arms full of stones, and Dipper behind him with the journal Ford had created and several other pieces. They ran into the glade southwest of the shack, an open area with six small sequoia growing in a circle. They spilled their arm-fulls into the center, Dipper dropping to his knees, flipping the dog-eared page open and shining the UV light over it.

“Okay, each stake has to go in relative to the … 'magnetic North' orientation. How are we supposed to know that!”

“It's the poles, of the Earth.” Stan scanned the sky, “Any good sailor has to know how to navigate by the poles. There!” he pointed to a cluster of stars that harbored Polaris at the tip, grabbing a stake and reorienting himself before jamming it in to the ground. “What about the others?”

“Equilateral from that one, a person length between them.” Stan grabbed the others, approximating their placement as best he could, but they seemed to guide themselves when they were close. “Okay, and the stones each go on the eight directional points.

“Criminey,” Stan groaned as Mabel gathered them in her arms.

“But they have to go 'in the consecutive order of planetary alignment from the sun'.”

“Now? When? How are we supposed to know which is closest?” Dipper shrugged as Stan turned. He growled, just grabbing them from Mabel, hurrying around the edge of the trees, placing them each out further and further from the center. He laid the last one, jogging back to the center.

“Okay, and we all stand between the spires.” They oriented themselves accordingly, Stan flinching as he reached into his pocket with an 'oh yea', tossing a small, blue, glowing triangle into the center, watching it arc to each spire. “Right. Okay. Now you read the incantation,” Dipper stated, offering Stanley the book.

“What! No, I can't do that!”

“What! Why??”

“I've never done it before—what if I screw it up?”

“Well, neither have I! You're closest to him!”

“Hardly!”

“We don't have time for this, just read it!”

“You read it!”

Before Dipper could respond, Mabel grabbed the book from him, reading the barely illuminated spell. “Enalp sih ot kcab larutan eht su gnirb,” her eyes began to glow, feet leaving the ground as she drifted up, Dipper and Ford just staring on in awe, “niag thgim ew taht rewop eht us evig lotolox.” The light bolted from her to the center object, arcing in a broad band to the north-most spire before splitting out and through each of them as it completed the triangle, stones glowing and levitating in sequential order. The air cracked above them, thin strands of electricity touching down to each spire as the Pines began to float, hair standing on end.

 

 

A thick tentacle shot from one of the mouths on the beast before Ford, end peeling open to several parts, edges glimmering and razor sharp. Ford barely moved as it went to strike him in the gut, fazing straight through him. “ **WhaT**!?”

“You like that trick? You're going to love this one.”

“ **No**! That's _**impossible**_!”

“You gave me your power, and years ago you gave me your knowledge, and I've finally learned how to use both.”

“You **can't** do **this**! I won't _**let**_ _**you.**_ ”

“For once, it's not up to you, Bill.” He could feel himself lose his connection to this plane, senses losing their perception. “You know, in another dimension or time we could have been friends. If you hadn't been so selfish and proud; something else you taught me.”

“You'll _**never**_ be rid of **me**. You're _MINE_ , **Stanford** **Pines.** ”

“Only in my dreams.”

 

 

A bolt of lighting shot from the last stone up the spiral and into the triangle, hitting every spire before centralizing on the now floating object in the center, shooting straight up and pouring into a portal, out of which Stanford was hurled, crashing in to Stanley hard enough to bounce them off the ground when they landed. The kids dropped with a synchronized 'whoa', landing softer than the older Pines. “Uncle Ford!” they yelled in unison, scrambling over to him.

Stanley grabbed at Ford's aged and seemingly unconscious face, thumbing over his cheeks and jostling him slightly. “Stanford!” His bold, blue eyes opened slowly, hand brushing over Stan's forehead. He made a choked noise when Stan's arms wrapped around him, pulling him flush against his chest, face buried in the space between the faded brown overcoat and his maroon sweater, trying to tamp down the sob that threatened to spill up. He let out another cough when the young twins piled on to them.

“Uncle Ford,” “oh my god, that was so scary-” “so crazy- ““so awesome-” “oh my god-did you see Bill-” “was he mad?” “How did you survive?” “Where did you go?” the kids blurted over each other, both still shaking.

“It's nice to see you too,” he interrupted after another moment. “You did great.” He tiredly pushed himself up, face caught between two strong hands.

He looked down to Stan, his eyes intense, and the fear was there, but pushed back, almost gone, replaced with certainty and sternness. “Don't you **ever** leave me again.”

“If it's all the same to you, I'd like to stay right here.”

“Oh, _you're_ staying—you're never getting out of my sight. You're worse than these two.”

“Bet dad would have never suspected that I turned out to be the wild one,” he pushed himself back, slowly getting to his feet.

“Yeah—I'm sure he's rolling in his grave,” Stan grumbled, as he pushed himself up on to an elbow, wincing. He looked up at the hand that came in to view; Ford was leaned forward, waiting for Stan to take it, wearing a look so gentle it took him a moment to remember when he had seen it last.

“Come on... let's go home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter name: I Rigged It
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed--it was a fun time, indeed.  
> For those who are curious, Polaris is the North Star, it's found in the constellation of Ursa Minor, aka the Little Dipper--just some fun science+magic contingency there. 
> 
> Thanks again to my readers, and feel free to check out some work related drawings I've been working on on my tumblr at by-veidt; and keep an eye out for my Stancest sequel to this. : )


End file.
